Bridging the Divide: “He sleeps in a car”

I arrive in Rajasthan

Holding a British passport close to my chest –

Paper

Laced with Australian and Irish ink,

That migrated

From England’s south west

To the south west

Sphere of our capital city.

London.

An ironically

Lonely space that is historically

Home to inclusivity

            As a concept.

A city that my crossbreed body has accepted

                                                As a temporary home

During this temporally transient life

                                                That humans sometimes hesitate to hold onto.

 

From Jodhpur,

I travelled via private transfer

To Udaipur

Via Ranakpur

Jain Temple;

A spiritual sanctuary

Nestled in a landscape

Longing for  

Solitude,

By a Rajasthan-

Born man

With a famished family.

He won’t return home tonight,

But instead,

Will sleep up-right

In his rusty, red car,

In the car park where he dropped me

Before returning tomorrow

To do

The same journey once more.

He smiles because he is poor

And has no choice.                

 

Riches

R  i   c   o  c   h   e  t    through

A reflectively lake-blue (#008c96)     ambiance

Which soaks into

Soaked Ker berries and

Sangri beans

Before they are cooked in a yogurt-based spicy masala

At

Charcoal.

Chittagong chickens are charcoaled

By Carlsson

Above

Pratap Bhawan Hotel

In Udaipur,

Where visual and oral odes

To Octopussy

Project displays of light

That illuminate India’s spring night

                                                                Sky.

A sky enamelled with streaks of Egyptian malachite -

Create a snail-spined

Streaked sunset

Adorned with kites

Running through Pakistan

From Kabul

And the Taliban's cruel

Misrule

Of cosmological calm.

Calm crushed under the weight of women

Wearing high-heeled shoes

                    Hoping for a     r    u    n    w    a    y,

Yet forever found sitting

Stifled upon a highway -

Home to hopelessly honking Hondas

                                                                In Herat.

 

A Life Peer

Perches upon a red pier -

Plagued with calluses from burnt and sun-bathing toes,

Those

Of callously

Commissioned craftsman,

Whose misery

Echo silently

Between sculptures

Ornately engraved into the steeple

Of Jagdish Temple.

    These people

Of Rajasthan

    Speak

On the pages of poetry

And within whimsical whispers

Carried by Udaipur’s weeping wind

Over Daiji Bridge

Decorated with the dispersed

Bodies of India’s destitute dogs,

Into the stratosphere of servitude at

Charcoal by Carlsson;

An amorphous culinary conurbation

Created through captivity.

 

Seven sojourners from Sydney speak.

“He told us they were big fans -

They were besotted with us…

Couldn’t stop taking photos.”

The waiter arrives with quilted throws,

Wearing Carlsson- prescribed clothes

Ironed to impress

These foreign empresses

            Eating Indian eggplant.

An offering of warmth

To women (and subsidiary men)

Wandering the desert,

                        Prescriptively,

With Rajasthan Wonder Tours,

Whilst sipping

Semillon dessert

                                                Wine

                                    In India’s

                                    Cool spring zephyrs.

 

“No. NO. It is fine.”

(No.

No ‘thankyou’

No ‘please’).

My British-genetic gentility

Gesticulates and

Gestures

Through the mournful wails

Of a part-Irish Banshee –

Heralding the death

Of my Australian ancestry.

“I work in finance”.

“So it wasn’t easy for you to get a job here?”.

His peer

            Confirms that here

                        Means Udaipur.

“I worked for the Bank of Scotland

                        After moving from Boyne Island,

                                                                        Queensland.”

“I had the weirdest interview of my life.

He was obviously intrigued and astonished by me”.

Why, because you travelled across the sea

To see

A thousands rupees?

Or because you’re white?

Or because he knows that you have no birth right

To this contested site?

Inaudible answers vibrate into the

Vibrancy of India’s intoxicating air.

He laughs capriciously,

Coddling a carafe

Of budget-Australian chardonnay.

A woman from Darwin

Divulges deathly details

About her white-privileged

            Inpatient life:

“I had $13,000 dollars and said ‘shit’ I cannot marry this man.

My manager said I should just buy some shares

In…”

Inaudible Investment Company.

Her culinary-composed company cackle.

Charcoal crackles.

And waiters wait

Wearing invisible shackles –

Tied to tainted "Untouchable" time.

 

One woman from New South Wales,

I quickly learnt,

            Abhors the burnt        

                        Skin of chickens

Chopped for chicken korma

At  Kurry

On Tuncurry

In Forster-Tuncurry.

“They are from India, yet my curry tasted of charcoal”.

They all LOL.

(Did she plan this place-themed pun?)

She surveys the terrace –

Her eyes

Impatiently

And blatantly

Ring bells

            From upstairs

To the downstairs kitchen

Located on the third floor –

Summoning someone to assist with

The service

Of her Lamb Souvlaki imminently.

(There is no korma

For her to order).

She smiles civilly,

Which silently

Sings a Machiavellian melody

That rings with rubies and rupees

Into an authentic arena of aspiration

Three floors

Below.

“So yeah,

$13,000 turned into $85,000 dollars and we got married

In Monaco -

In November last year

(2024),

With marvellous Monegasque foods

At Louis          

XV  

I didn’t see a single Indian man.

Is that normal in France?”

My stance,

Is NO.

Also,

Monaco

Is not France.

Yet if only 53 Indian people

Reside in this money-making,

Casino-crafted

Country,

Then YES.

 

I stereotype

And conclude that

Australia as a whole

Is

A

Dumb

Cultural           con     un        drum    –

Where people

Repress the ancient origins of drumming

In Aboriginal communities –

Deprived of immunities

Against those whom rule with impunities –

Those who castrate culture

In favour of cultivation,

Colonisation,

And the creation

Of Christmas Island;

A convivially christened

            Prison

For a Tamil asylum seeking family-of-four -

Moved offshore

With no door

To Exit West.

Behind me,

Hindi-speaking humans

Eat chapatti

And Fish Amritsari,

Whilst her emerald sari

Ripples in Udaipur’s eventide

Breeze.

 

A woman from Canberra

Orders a Cosmopolitan.

I write.

The cocktail is served.

No gratitude given.

Bowed heads behind me

Smile as their Sev Tamatar

Arrives -

After the waiter so attentively attends

To the inattentive Australians.

 

I’m sat in a liminal space of luxury –

Overlooking Hotel Sarovar –

The Savoy of Rajasthan,

Whilst perching on the precipice of poverty below.

I don’t belong here.

Or anywhere.

My blood, skin, and the sound of my voice

Vilify my veins.

And I feel the reins

Of Regina’s wealth

Warp around this British,

Irish,

And Australian

 Body,

That is me,

Who boarded a Boeing plane

To India.

 

The Australians eat.

They leave.

No eye-contact.

No tip.

No “thank-you”.

They simply skip-through

This paradise of people

Without leaving a trace

Of grace,

In a space

Where simple acts of kindness

Are carefully crafted

Into the collective conscious

Of humans with hope

For a better life.

 

Is anyone actually happy here?

 

I pay for two pints of Kingfisher beer.

The waiter sheds a sep.ul.chral-salted tear,

As I disappear

Into the air-conditioned lair

Below -

After apologising for

My minimal monetary investment

In this eatable establishment;

A space

Where stereotyped souls

Are devoured

By spectating

Sojourners,

Such as me.

 

As I retire to my Rajasthan-

Fanned room,

I aspire

To stop categorising

The characteristics

Of

My fellow Australians;

To stop using linguistics

That

Spread stereotypes;

To stop erecting walls,           

                        That dichotomise

My ancestral

Values,

And instead,

To bridge the divide

That the world creates

And that we perpetuate.

Thus I apologise,

Whilst the world cries

            At our callous cruelty.

And all the while,

He prepares to sleep in his car.

The wind whispers

And I hope he hears me,

Once again,

Say thank you

For driving me over 155 miles.

I hope he smiles

Despite his situational solitude.

Next time

 I resign,

I book my driver a hotel.

And bid Farwell.